


I won't let them take you

by howveryzoe



Category: Frühlings Erwachen | Spring Awakening - Frank Wedekind, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Holocaust tw, Implied Violence, M/M, Second Person Narration, ableist slurs, implied nazism, it's their fault, lydia made me post this, period appropriate ableism, short and gross, squash me under the heel of your boot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 17:28:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8022760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howveryzoe/pseuds/howveryzoe
Summary: When you're tripping over your own thoughts and staying up all night with fear sometimes there's a chance for hope





	I won't let them take you

**Author's Note:**

> This is written almost 60% as a response to all I hate about holocaust stories

It’s all starched clothes that itch and hot sun and dry earth beneath your feet and nowhere to hide. That’s every day and that’s right now. Back and forth, to and fro, wake up, do your work, go to bed, repeat. Bite as hard down on your tongue so that you don’t cry at night and pretend you don’t have family or friends to worry about. Talk of revolution subsided a long time ago. Now it’s just talk of keeping the air in your lungs. You were never a revolutionary. You just let the wind blow through your bones till your skin sags off and you’re nothing but itchy cloth and bones and blood. Try not to shake so much at night and feel like any moment there’ll be hands on your arms and a gun to your temple. Get the smell of smoke out of your nose and the blood off your trousers. Do that, work hard, you’ll live. It’s easy. It’s mercy.

You’re standing around for a break near the wall, red brick. It’s hot so you don’t let your back brush against it but stand a foot away. You’re near the corner of it. You don’t see him at first, he comes from behind you. But soon you do as his shadow crosses your’s. He’s tall, dwarfs you easily. You cannot see his face with the sun in your eye but you already know who he is.

He’s mute. And probably dumb. Which means they would’ve killed him right away but he’s strong. One of the strongest here. And fast. They can make him work and he seems to understand. People stay away from him. You’ve seen him, you’ve watched him. He’ll smile at you once in awhile and you’ll look away.  A shiver runs up your spine and you’ll go back to work. Not today.

He beckons you over to the corner and you tentatively meet him, eyes shifting around. Something in his hand, you can’t see. If he is simple and it’s a dead rat or something you’ll take it and smile you guess. Then throw it away later. 

You can smell his breath. His hair is short like yours but it seems to suit him while you can’t stand to see yourself anymore. You notice his eyes now, bright blue grey. They were probably another thing keeping him alive. His palm reaches from behind his back, you look for guards. His palm out stretches, you flinch, you wonder, you clench up, you-

It’s soil. Black, rich healthy soil, and growing in it is a small white flower on a bright green stem. Its roots snake through the soil into his palm. It’s probably just a weed. But you can’t help but intake a breath. You meet his eyes confused, eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t understand.” You say it slowly, unsure if he even speaks German, or speaks at all. He pushes his hand further towards you, desperation in his eye. 

“Here.” He says, his voice garbled and slow. “For you.”

You have never heard him speak. No one has. His words are distorted and you realize him focusing on your lips. He’s deaf. You’d never thought of it. He’s not lost it in here, not become a child out of fear, he’s just deaf. You break into a smile despite yourself. And laugh. Laugh for no reason, laugh for the first time since in a long time. He returns the smile gratefully and his is huge and glowing. 

“Oh! Oh thank you!” You say softly, excitement bursting from your voice. “But where will I keep it?”

He stares for another second trying to understand then pulls his other hand out to show a small cup he must’ve stolen. It’s cracked and dirty, white plaster with a blue lining around the rim. He puts the plant in it. “In your bunk. Water it well.” He responds. Your shaking fingers take the cup. And you smile at him. And he at you. 

“Max.” He says, and points at himself.

“Bobby,” you respond. “Ezra in Hebrew.” 

“Moishe.” 

The bell rings. Back to work. You gesture for him to run off. He goes back to his work, feet hitting the ground with an almost carelessness to them. Like a schoolboy. You place the cup down, you’ll get it after work, slip it away in your clothes. You’ll come back for it. 

You’ve never found a flower like that or a smile like his. Not here.  And it’s all your’s. The only thing in the world that is all your’s and permanently so. They can smash the cup and the boy. But you’ll have the picture in your head as clear as a photograph. What a thing to smile about.

Now suddenly you see him all the time. 

Waiting for you when you get rations, staring across the field. Finding you in the corner of the wall during breaks. Sending you looks if you have work together. If you stand to scan the faces of new arrivals he is looking for at. You guess he doesn’t have anyone to look for at this point. 

You rarely talk, there’s little time to do so. But when you do it’s a mix of speaking and lip reading and gesturing and writing and him showing you signs. You get by in the end. You find out later he can barely speak, he’d practiced what he wanted to say to you for some time. 

You don’t talk about your lives before. Or your lives now. You just talk. How’s the plant going? Still alive and flowering. It’s so hot out. I miss books. I heard we get potatoes tomorrow. The rain felt so nice on my skin. I dreamt about swimming last night, and you. Oh.

You do dream about him. Nightmares often, but sometimes nice dreams, his hand in yours or the sunlight behind his head. The two of you strolling through Munich. Him running ahead of you. You both laughing. 

You don’t touch each other. It’s too risky and you’re both too shy to initiate. He once touched your shoulder and you shook him off almost instinctively. Even in a moment of comfort you stay an arm’s distance apart. There are eyes everywhere. Sometimes you think there are eyes in your sleep and they’ll shine flashlights in your face and pull you out of your bed and away from him and condemn you for the crime of dreaming. 

Late October his barrack overflows and some are moved into yours. 

“How did you get on the list?” You ask him when he stands beside your bunk after the guards have left, grinning brightly.

“Cashed in a favor.” He tells you casually.

“Don’t cash in favors for me, you’ll need them later.” You tell him, afraid.

He only smiles at you and goes to climb to his assigned bunk, leaving you breathless and worried behind him.

It’s the dead of night when he wakes you, a finger to his lips. 

You look at him with surprise, the floodlights from the adjacent building illuminating his face. Wordlessly he kisses you, cracked, colorless lips pressing together. Your heart leaps to your throat and you return his kiss with a shy smile. 

“We’ll get in trouble.” You say when he pulls away. “They’ll find out. They always do.”

“And we’ll be so much worse off than we are now?” He says.

You want to say yes, we’ll be dead. It’ll be so much worse. They’ll take me from you. I’ll watch you die or get hurt and I can’t have that. I don’t want to hurt more than I already do. But you say nothing.

“It’ll be quick, I’ll just hold you, just for a bit. They’ll never know.” It’s a weak lie but you give him a yes and let him slip into your bed and wrap his arms around you, hand on your face your lips touching silently. You stay there till you think you spot a guard patrolling nearby and he goes back to his bed begrudgingly. The absence of his warmth makes you tug your blanket tighter and you find your eyes reaching for him in the thick darkness that chokes you. You struggle back to sleep.

You never discuss it in the daylight. It’s like it never happened in your waking hours. Only his blue eyes betray you but no one looks to close in them. If you were scared of being caught before it’s even more now. He grabs you tight at night to stop you from shaking. Every moment feels like you’re one breath from the end. But retribution doesn’t come. It remains a secret.

Early January and you hear rumors around camp about the Soviets getting nearer. The guards seem more anxious but the prisoners more hopeful. You and him talk about it on your breaks.

“Do you think it’s true?” You ask.

“I don’t know, maybe.” He responds.

“I’m afraid what will happen before they get here.” 

“I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can try.”

“Max, don’t.”

“Ezra.”

More and more leave the camp. Day after day they’re packed into buses. Where to no one knows. 

“You just don’t want to be on them.” Is the whisper.

Late in January one night there’s a knock on your door. They’ve come. You’re to go as quickly as you can, into the bus. Don’t ask questions. Everyone awakes drowsily and stands. No one wants to be the first outside. 

You look at each other.

“Stay behind.” He whispers. 

“What?” You spit back.

“Hide in the bunk, you’re small enough, run out once we’ve all left and hide. Don’t get on that bus.” He tells you quickly speaking and signing faster than you’ve seen him.

“Not without you.” You tell him, standing your ground.

“I’m too big, they’d find me. I’ll jump off the bus and come back for you, I promise.” He says already moving towards the door. You don’t move. “This is your only chance, it’s one of us or neither of us.”

You say nothing.   
“I’ll see you in the morning.” And he’s out the door before he can see you cry. 

You feel like an animal crawling beneath the bunk, a blanket thrown over your head, your heart pounding as fast as baby rabbit. To your luck they don’t search too well but move on to the next barrack, anxious to move out. Destroy the evidence. You stay there wide awake all night.

Morning comes the door is thrown up and light floods in. You hear talking in a language you can’t understand and see heavy boots move across the floor. It’s only when you see the hammer and the sickle on their suit that you reveal yourself. They usher you calmly outside where those left behind wait with food and doctors. You scan the crowds for him. But he’s nowhere to be seen. Guilt claws at your stomach and no one asks you why you’re crying. Most don’t even know what to do with themselves. To scream or laugh or hug. You’re paralyzed. Glad to be a survivor, glad to not have been on the bus, and hating yourself for your gladness. 

 

It’s fall of 1945. You sit in a passenger train car with a suitcase between your legs. Your suit is new and loose fitting still, you haven’t gained back all your weight yet. Your hair has almost all grown back, a dirty blonde. A hand taps your shoulder, you turn on your heel, wondering if it’s the conductor asking for your ticket. You rummage in your pocket to pull it out. When the paper is between your fingers you look up. Same grey blue eyes though more hair as well and it seems almost odd to see him in regular clothes. You intake breath. He smiles.

“Do you still have your plant?”

**Author's Note:**

> why did i do this


End file.
